A Reflection with No Agenda.

It is a nightmare. It must be. I am tossing and turning but I can’t wake up. There’s smoke, and screaming, and chaos. I rub my eyes, rub my eyes…but it doesn’t go away.

Today began like any other. I woke up on this Marathon Monday to the sounds of my alarm clock squawking at me to get up. A couple of snoozes, an English muffin and some much needed coffee later, the day was off and running.

Somewhere in the distance, an 8 year old woke up and his Marathon Monday began like any other… at least I can guess. Because that 8 year old boy is just like me. Every year, that magical day approached when everyone was off from work…a great excuse to eat junk food and hand strangers water and oranges. Lawn chairs, coolers and sunscreen in tow, I’d walk down the Marathon streets with my dad, my best friend and her father. The four of us so content, so safe in the joy of the day… the energy that fills the air, the excitement of seeing mere mortals do seemingly heroic things with their bodies. The rhythmic motion of muscles and sneakers, moving in tandem with arms flapping, teeth shining, skin glistening. The smells of grilled meats, popcorn and spilled beer. The sounds of young kids asking why, why do we do this every year. The sounds of drunk college kids screaming at their friends for walking too fast. The sounds of parents trying to keep tabs on their 8 year old, who would do anything to get just one better look at the head of the pack.

And then there’s today. The visions of yesterday, those smells and visions and feelings of having it all… they’re gone. All gone. And I’m left with a pit in my stomach, an empty pit yet so full of anger, confusion, fear, nostalgia, nausea, and terror.

This isn’t supposed to happen anywhere. This especially isn’t suppose to happen here. I am biased I admit, but anyone who has visited here or lived here or walked these streets will agree… Boston is a special place.

We are small enough to know each other, but big enough to mind our business.

We love our sports teams, and we hate the Yankees.

Dunkin Donuts iced coffee is our state food.

We drive lake maniacs and expect you to do the same.

And we go to the Boston Marathon every Patriot’s Day. And we love it. And we go home after filled with exhaustion from over-stimulation, a stomach-ache from too much food and a heart full of Boston pride.

It just isn’t suppose to happen here… on a day like this…in a place like this. Where people bust their butts to pay for their rent. Where people come from all over the world to a city that prides itself on acceptance of all people. Where we don’t worry about things like this happening, but we just trust in ourselves and each other.

So I toss and I turn. And I shut my eyes tight. And Lord, do I pray that when morning arrives, and how lucky it will be to arrive, this will all be that nightmare I thought all along.